What It Takes

by Richard Ben Cramer

  But he couldn’t give up the chair. That would be confirmation of everything they wrote about him.

  That was the bottom line: he had to keep his life out of the Bork fight. Then, he would do whatever it took—however many years it took—to set the record straight on his own life.

  Monday, Joe burrowed into the hearings like a kid hiding under the porch. Bork was off the stand. Panels of judges and legal scholars were testifying for and against the nomination. No one could get to Biden while he sat in the chair ... he didn’t even get up to pee. He kept the committee in till eleven at night, while he stared ahead, mostly silent.

  It really came down to three separate issues.

  There was the Bork nomination ... and the Biden campaign. He could not go out to save the campaign at the risk of the Bork nomination. He could not even take time now to defend himself, personally. If he screwed up on Bork, that would be the end of his reputation. That was the third issue—and the big one: his word as a Biden. That was the loss he could not overcome.

  He took time, the next day, for one meeting: a session with his Congressional supporters. They’d stood up for him proudly, at announcement, a hundred days before. Now they only wanted to know: Any more shoes gonna drop?

  And Joe, a hundred days ago the proudest of all on that grand stage, had to think before he answered. When he did talk, sadly, all he could say was: “I just, honest to God, don’t know.”

  He’d been raking through his life in his head ... anything else someone could use?

  That speech ... that line ... was that his? Who wrote that?

  Doak and Shrum—Pat was so sure they were bleeding him—what had he confided to those guys?

  Or were his own people—guys with him now—leaving the ship?

  Who could say, with blood in the water?

  Word was spreading in the capital: Biden was about to call it quits. Joe had told the gurus to draft a withdrawal statement.

  That day, there were two hundred press calls. Rasky had the twenty-foot conference table covered with messages. He and Donilon tried to call them all: of course, the big-feet first.

  E.J. Dionne, from the Times, was ahead of the pack on Biden’s withdrawal. He was on the phone every few hours. At some point, he asked Donilon: What was the story on Jimmy Biden’s bankruptcy? The Times was thinking of doing a story. ... But E.J. didn’t press it: there was only one big story left on Biden—was there gonna be, you know ... any announcement tomorrow?

  At the close of the hearings, Joe walked into the conference room, found Rasky with his head down, like he was studying the grain of the table. “What’sa matter now?” Biden said.

  “We’re getting pressure from everywhere,” Rasky said. “I just talked to E.J. ... the great Paper of Record is trying to blackmail you out.”

  But Joe was spinning too fast—didn’t have time to deal with cases. They’d deal with it all, that night, in Wilmington. He gathered gurus and staff—Donilon and Rasky, Gitenstein and Kaufman—but not Pat. Pat just wanted to attack the press: straight to the people over the heads of the press—take the road even Hart feared to tread. Biden wasn’t going to do that. And Joe couldn’t take a fight with Caddell now. So Pat stayed in D.C. (Ridley stayed behind as a fire wall between Caddell and Joe), and Biden took the rest home with him to Wilmington.

  On the train, they clumped into an Amtrak coach, planning withdrawal. In Wilmington, the guys peeled off for dinner at a pasta joint. Biden would have dinner with family alone ... they’d all meet at Joe’s house to work out the final plan.

  But when they got to Biden’s, there was no more plan, Joe had talked it over with the family. It looked like he was back in the race.

  Joe paced his living room, doing the moves: he was gonna prove why this charge was bullshit, and that charge was bullshit. The law school thing—he’d have the head of the Delaware Supreme Court open the case, a full investigation. The Kinnock stuff he already explained—he’d used that stuff before, always with credit. The Kennedy lines—Pat already said he stuck those lines into the speech, Joe didn’t know. He’d said that at the press conference. The academic record—that was tough, but he’d explain ... it wasn’t three degrees, but he’d had two majors at Delaware. He did have a scholarship. He did improve in law school. If he could just get out to make the case to the people, he knew they’d be with him.

  Yeah, but when could he make the case?

  The campaign was dying.

  Fund-raising ... forget it.

  Rasky and Donilon, the pros, couldn’t see how Joe could do it. Not all at once. Something had to go. “You’ve had forty million dollars of negative TV dumped on you in the last week,” Donilon said.

  “You know,” Joe said. “I’ve never been a quitter ... never quit anything in my life.”

  “That’s right,” Beau said.

  Beau was the one who made the case for staying in. Beau and Hunt were furious, and hurt. They couldn’t believe their father would even think of getting out. This wasn’t about politics, or the public—this was about their dad’s honor. “You’ve got nothing to get out from,” Beau said. “All the stuff they said—there’s nothing real.”

  It was almost eerie how alike were father and son ... and Beau made the argument with such feeling, such intensity ... it looked like Joe might fight it out to the death.

  “If you quit now, people will think that all that stuff about you is true. If you stay,” Beau said, “keep the spotlight, you can make your case directly to the people—right over the heads of the press ...”

  Then Rasky got into it with Beau: What are you talking about—over the heads of the press? How? ... Have you been talking to Pat?

  No, Beau was not talking for Caddell. This was from Beau.

  “If you quit,” Beau said. “You’ll be ... like Hart!”

  Caddell was on the phone now—not once, but every ten minutes. Pat had arguments for Joe, arguments for Jimmy to make to Joe, something he had to tell Beau—right now. ... It was nuts. Caddell was stirring the pot to a froth from a hundred miles away.

  Pat’s next call, Rasky went to the kitchen—he’d try to calm Pat. ... But no—how could Pat be calm?

  “You guys,” Caddell screamed, “have formed a vigilante committee to get my candidate OUT OF THE RACE!”

  In the living room, Gitenstein was warning: this attack on Joe was going to contaminate the vote on Bork. “If we win on Bork, it’s gonna be in spite of us. If we lose now, it’s gonna be because of us. The only way you’re going to shut the press up is ... get out.”

  Ted Kaufman was the last to weigh in. After fifteen years with Biden, Wilmington to Washington every day, Ted wasn’t talking about the press, the campaign, or the Bork fight—Ted thought of Joe. So it seemed like there was nothing more to argue, after Ted said ... “Get out.”

  It wasn’t that Joe didn’t see the logic. He’d known since he got home, and started talking with the family: he’d have to get out. He had no way to fight. Christ, he knew that... with his head. But his heart—his family! his sons!—could not accept ... “I quit.”

  He would not say it!

  In the end, of course, it was all about family.

  Jimmy, Frankie—they saw the logic. They were the ones who told Joe, flat out ... it hurt, sure, hurt Joe, hurt the family ... but that didn’t change anything.

  Jill wanted out. The calls to the house ... so nasty. There was no explaining. Those people didn’t want to hear the answers. They just kept ... well, it was awful.

  It was late that night, Rasky took Joe aside, into the library, told him more about the call from the Times. They were going after Jimmy; it wasn’t just Joe anymore.

  Soon after that, Joe called to Jill, and they started upstairs. Joe paused, turned on the staircase, and said quietly to Gitenstein: “Mark, you get to work on a statement.”

  The old Judiciary hearing room was packed an hour before Joe’s appearance ... the whole tribe assembled: government reporters who’d been sitting in the he
arings, political reporters just back from Iowa, big-feet holding court at their seats. The back of the room filled, then the aisles. (David Broder would report that twenty-eight TV rigs were present.) The air was scarce. But it was social.

  “Hey, what’re you doin’ here, slumming?”

  “Hey, d’you have lunch?”

  A reporter pressed against the side wall started paddling his arms and yelping. ... Hah! Feeding frenzy—see?

  The few who knew Biden were quiet. “I’ve covered him for eight years,” said Nadine Cohodas, from Congressional Quarterly. She looked like she was going to weep.

  Debby Orin, from the New York Post, was working the ones who knew—working hard: “There’s something really wrong about this. I feel awful. I mean, don’t you think it’s wrong, there’s something wrong?” She’d fix her sharp dark eyes on one, then the other: “Don’t you think it’s wrong? I mean, who did this to Joe? I’ve heard the White House on the law school thing, but, I mean, what about the other stuff, you know? Who? ...”

  (Gephardt, Gephardt, Gephardt ... they answered. They all knew the poop on Doak and Shrum v. Caddell. If you weren’t known to be in the know about Doak and Shrum ... well, who were you? Anyway, Biden was dead meat. Next case.)

  The door behind the podium swung open and Val emerged, with her husband, Jack, then brother Jimmy, then Jill and Joe. Biden stepped up to the podium, topped with a fungal bouquet of microphones.

  “Hello, everybody. You know my wife, Jill. ... Three and a half months ago ...”

  Jill was on his left, close, her right arm almost touching him. She stared straight ahead at the wall of cameras, the pack ... but she met no one’s eyes. She hated them. First time in her life ... but it was true: this was hate. They were destroying what Joe worked for, twenty years. It was just another story for them. They were excited: the crowd at a hanging. She couldn’t believe how Joe was—so controlled.

  He kept it short and sweet: no ranting, no self-pity.

  He’d made mistakes, he said. And now, with the glare on those mistakes, it was impossible to make people see Joe Biden. He had to choose between his campaign and his chance to influence the direction of the Court.

  “Although it’s awfully clear to me what choice I have to make, I have to tell you honestly, I do it with incredible reluctance—and it makes me angry. I’m angry with myself for having been put in the position, for having put myself in the position, of having to make this choice. And I am no less frustrated at the environment of Presidential politics that makes it so difficult to let the American people measure the whole Joe Biden, and not just misstatements that I have made.

  “But, folks, be that as it may, I have concluded that I will stop being a candidate for President of the United States.”

  He thanked his supporters.

  He thanked the press for being there.

  Then he turned on his heel, and walked out.

  It was a performance of grace and guts—everybody noticed. They commended him in “analysis” pieces that weekend. They said Biden did it to himself—at least he was sport enough to say so. It made everybody feel better.

  Broder went so far as to write a column about the time he saw Joe stop in an airport and spend a half-hour with a man who had AIDS. See, Biden did have character.

  It was okay to say so, once he bowed out so nicely—give the guy a break.

  Like that story about Jimmy’s bankruptcy: the Times never did follow up. Not a word. Probably thought they were being kind—pulling back, once Joe got out. They wouldn’t see it otherwise ... as the Bidens saw it ... for instance, as blackmail.

  Joe didn’t have time for postmortems. He had the hearings, thank God. After his statement, he walked through the anteroom, straight to the hall and the Caucus Room. Jill and Mark Gitenstein walked alongside.

  “I did the right thing,” Biden said. He didn’t even seem to be convincing himself. He was calm, quiet, clear. “I can concentrate now—do the hearings. At least, I can do a good job.”

  Mark was nodding. He was going to say ...

  “No!” Jill said. And it jolted them: her tone. Jill never cut in like that. Joe and Mark each thought she was talking just to him.

  Jill said, with steel in her voice: “You have got to win.”

  68

  Missss-ter Eagle Scout!

  OF COURSE HE WANTED to win—wouldn’t have tried if he didn’t think he could. But when he started—when was it? four years ago? almost five!—Dick Gephardt didn’t think he could lose.

  Not that he thought himself inexorable victor—no, the odds were always against him. But if he just did well, if he ran a decent race ... he’d have to end up better. A national figure, a force for the future!

  It was strange, but the road to the White House was the path of least resistance. Dick made the turn in ’83, after Senator Tom Eagleton tipped him off: Eagleton would not run again in ’86. He was going to announce his retirement, and he wanted Dick to jump in the same day—say he meant to be the next Senator from Missouri.

  Well, it was a hell of an invitation. Dick could emerge anointed, with Eagleton’s blessing, Eagleton’s money. (Lou Susman, the Senator’s high-dollar man, was more eager than Tom! ...) But it would have been bloody—a primary, statewide, against Harriett Woods, a go-getter liberal, a hard campaigner ... a woman. It made Dick edgy: he’d have to talk about abortion. Gephardt had always voted with his district—pro-life—to outlaw abortion. But he didn’t want to climb into bed with the antiabortion zealots in Missouri ... they were crazy! Anyway, after that, he’d never be able to get outta bed. He could never run nationally as a pro-life Democrat (unless he meant to do without Democratic women).

  So, Dick didn’t jump. And when he balked at running statewide ... well, the only choice was to go national. Jim Wright was already angling for Speaker (after Tip announced his retirement), and Dick could have made that a fight ... but talk about bloody! He’d end up with enemies aplenty, even if he won. So he contented himself with Chairman of the Caucus—fourth in the leadership. That was his ticket to the top ... and it wouldn’t upset anybody.

  Actually, the job was perfect: he could make of it what he chose—for instance, a straight shot to the evening news. Dick would be invited to speak for the Party, get out front to define the agenda. That would carry him all over the country ... new friends, new connections ... he was already running flat out for ’88. At least, he was out there to offer himself, as he’d offered himself on St. Louis doorsteps. He’d see how it went, how people reacted ... what did he have to lose? The filing deadline for his House seat would fall on March 29, 1988 ... three weeks after Super Tuesday. The worst that could happen: he’d be back in the House—a stronger runner, after a practice lap.

  But five years has a way of changing a man’s mind. So much effort, by so many people ... people counting on him. Other people’s money, promises to keep ... all the problems he’d talked about for years—as if he knew—now, he knew.

  He’d voted, every year, for Meals on Wheels. Nice program: food for old people. Who’s against it? ... Dick was for old people—“senior citizens,” he called them—always scored high on the rankings compiled by their lobbyists. But now, in Iowa—a campaign event, a photo op—he delivered a Meal on Wheels. And this old lady came to the door, on her walker ... she was so happy he was there. She wanted to tell him what it meant ... the food was fine—but what it meant was, a person came by, every day, to ask for her ... a person who cared. She could live in her own house. She didn’t have to sit in some warehouse for old bones. (She didn’t call it a “senior citizens’ home” or a “Title-Eight, Type-Two, Long-Term Health-Care Facility.” It was that brick box across town, where people went in and never came out.)

  He visited the GM plant in Fremont, California. It was shut down in 1982 because of low productivity, high worker-absentee rate, high defect rate ... maybe the worst plant in the company (which was going some, in GM’s case). And then GM switched it over to building the new Chevy No
va—a joint venture with Toyota—and replaced the plant’s top brass. The new manager came from Japan: the son of Mr. Toyota himself. Well, the defect rate went down—among the lowest in the corporation ... lower absentee rate, higher productivity. The high muck-a-mucks were eating with assembly-line workers in the same cafeteria, the workers were meeting in quality councils, showing up before shifts to do calisthenics ... and they felt great about it!

  That’s just what he’d been talking about—attitude! You get people together and find out what they want ... and then do it!. You could turn it around! That’s what the country had to do. That’s what he could do ... what he had to do!

  It’s like a drug, the feeling you could make a difference—a big, thumping, history-denting difference in the lives of all those people, those hundreds of thousands of hoping, hurting individuals who have stared at you in school auditoriums, coffee shops, and living rooms. The twelve hundred men and women from the J.I. Case plant, in Bettendorf, Iowa, whose jobs took off one day and landed in South Korea—he wanted to tell them, things would be better ... he would make them better ... he could do it!

  But he had to win.

  And that was different from not losing.

  And the twist in his belly, that end of September 1987, was he was not winning. He wasn’t even not-losing. When it mattered most, to him ... he was sinking like a stone. But worse than that, he’d stand on a courthouse lawn (his seventy-ninth county!) and he’d wind up his speech ...

  “Give me your will ...

  “Give me your vision ...

  “Give me your commitment ...

  “Give me your belief ...

  “And, together, we can make America great, and strong again.”

  And maybe there’d be forty souls, forty pairs of eyes, maybe thirty seeing him for the first time ... and he could not see in them any faith that he could make the difference. He could not even read belief ... that he wanted to make things better.